


liar liar (fucking liar)

by Flightstorm9



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angels, Angst, Clay | Dream & Technoblade Friendship (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Cynicism, Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Ender!Dream, Existentialism, Fluff, Gen, Gods, I'm Going to Hell, Immortal Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Manhunt - Freeform, Minecraft Manhunt, On the Run, References to Religion, Reincarnation, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tags May Change, The Void, but also when is he not, christians hold on to your horses oof i'm so sorry, cuz why not, dream is friends with an ender dragon because i wanted to read it but there was none so i wrote it, dream's a bit jaded in this, dream's kind of a florida man in this, is friend-shaped, it won't be portrayed in a very good light just a warning, kind of scuffed tbh but oh well, listen i don't make the rules i just write them out, mostly angst though, nevermind this is angst now, not stated outright but heavily implied that he's a god, religious trauma, seriously it's mostly hjinks with ender dragon frend, so is the ender dragon, well not exactly but you'll see, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightstorm9/pseuds/Flightstorm9
Summary: He believed them and their sacrilege until he didn't. Whispers of rumination, of void and stars, hanging in balance, of something holy and higher and of heaven - and he believed. Maybe that's the worst thing of all.But he found the dragon, and he fought the dragon, and he befriended the dragon. The story is his to shape, and he's not a hero, but the villain is a role few can claim, anyways.And this story doesn't have an End, not yet. This is only the beginning.-Or: Dream somehow manages to steal an ender dragon, rides her off into the sunset, and maybe-accidentally commits a few crimes along the way. It's so not his fault that his face is so damnwantable.Now, won't these bounty hunters just leave him alone?
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) & Ender Dragon (Minecraft), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	1. human's burning through my bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just a side project for me to work on whenever i'm suffering over the plot of my other longfic - that being said, thanks for clicking! enjoy :D
> 
> disclaimer: i use the name 'clay' for dream a few times throughout this fic, but that is purely for plot purposes. this fanfic is about fictional characters based on internet personas, not real people. i do not intend to offend anyone by this type of work.

The mask taunts him with its smile.

He turns the molded clay in his hands, and he feels like he's handling his own life, in a way. So malleable and delicate and fragile, impressionable - until it's not, anymore. Until he's hard and brittle and cold and nothing like the warm earth he was nurtured of, is something worse and worse until he's not him anymore.

And then, what is he?

His parents gave him the name he dares not speak anymore, that forbidden whisper of _Clay_ he hardly remembers beyond a passing longing that curves, often, into something darker. Except in his own dreams, when fantasy twists into the fabric of reality and seeps deeper into clinging consciousness, into a desperate wish, a dream to hold on to with desperate hands.

And he was Clay, once. But clay is what he holds in his hands now, is weak and soft and everything he isn't anymore, wishes he could be. No, what he is now is something that shouldn't exist but does. And there's a word for that.

Many, actually.

His fingers dig into the crudely-shaped material, and he snarls, because this isn't him anymore. He's not _Clay,_ who looked upon this world with naive eyes and thought it was kind, because he's not _this_ anymore. He's not like them, and whatever - whoever he was before wasn't, either, but maybe he's tired. Maybe he's done. Maybe he just wants to forget.

Maybe he wants to let go.

_Not better, but bitter._

And it scares him just a little, that he's okay with that.

* * *

He returns to the riverside, where the sand of the shore is gritty beneath his bare feet, and it's wonderful as it is terrifying. He'd taken off his boots to connect with the earth again after being parted from it for so long - although now he regrets it a little, with how the ground vibrates in eager alignment to his every step.

It's as painful as it is welcoming, attuning to the natural order of things - or at least, what should've been natural. But it isn't, and he isn't, and it just reminds him of everything and everyone who lied, lied, _lied._

The air trembles with his mounting fury, and he draws in a deep breath and goes.

She's waiting for him when he returns, all dark, ebony grace and smooth scale shifting and scraping, burning violet eyes that blaze holes into his soul. She sees right past the mask he bears now, and merely tilts her head in acknowledgement at the new change.

He's grateful for that, the simple lack of judging.

Nodding wordlessly to the ender matriarch, he sits down at the water and slides open his inventory. The harsh holographic glare forces him to squint; the sun is dying in the distance against the rapidly-darkening sky, the air cooling into a pleasant chill that brings itself to him upon every breath. It makes something in him stutter, the reminder that he doesn't belong here - or rather, he does belong, belongs all too well. This earth wants to claim him, steal him away and seal him within a coffin somewhere buried deep under and take him, and some part of him is tempted.

Why, he doesn't know anymore.

(That's a lie - he does know. He holds that reason close to his chest, traps it under his fingers and shoves it back inside and downdowndown, feels it squirm and struggle and die beneath his ribs. Not quite a heartbeat because he isn't human, exactly, but close.

And of course he values his freedom, but maybe sleep would be _easier.)_

He sighs aloud despite himself, and fireflies he hadn't noticed scatter at the gust of breath.

There's a low rumble, like the low bank of a storm front bellowing its warning - he glances back towards the dragoness watching him, and she huffs wordlessly, tail sweeping sand into blooming clouds of dust and smacking accidentally into the water with a loud splash. He grins a little under the new mask when he sees her disgruntled expression - she's clearly not used to liquids such as water, and her obvious distaste for it was hilarious, in a way. Maybe it was similar to how Endermen were severely irritated by it? Rashes were cruel, cruel, things.

She bared her teeth at him in a clear warning when he snickers, wings flaring up and rolling out in an impressive display of strength. He hadn't not noticed how the mobs were steering clear of the two of them - she was warding them off, somehow, probably by some passive-aggressive _you touch me and I murder you_ aura. Or maybe it was him?

Whatever the case, he wasn't complaining. It was nice, in a way, to just... relax, for once.

_It's not rest, they lied to you and they lied to you and they lied they lied they l i e d_

He swipes through his inventory, reorganising the mini-dimensional space aimlessly as he tentatively allows his mind to wander. A dangerous thing, these days, but he's surrounded by wilderness and has a guardian dragon watching over him, so he thinks he'll be okay.

Maybe. Probably not, if he's being honest - trouble has a tendency to find him, and power attracts power. And he and her are very, very, powerful.

Especially together.

It's sad, in a way. The people at the bottom hunger for the top, and the people at the top do too, or worse, wish they weren't. And he's been in both situations, lower than dirt and higher than gods, and it's pathetic in a way he doesn't want to admit when he looks at them. When he looks at himself.

And he's nothing like what he was supposed to be and is so okay with that that he doesn't know how to _feel_ about it all.

He blinks, realising he's staring down at the river water, and the now-porcelain smile ripples back at him.

(And he's not Clay, anymore. Because there's a word for what he was.)

* * *

He sleeps and reality warps for him, for the young divine who was raised among the said-superior, when they were anything but.

He doesn't belong in those halls of ender, too regal and royal and raging. He bites the hands that feeds and thrashes against the chains that bind, but it's the sort of struggle that is little more than petty spite, until it's not.

He is trapped trapped trapped and obsidian is his prison, now, the cracked yellow earth is something he looks upon in disdain, the crystals he holds in contempt. But the dragon was different - the dragon was like him.

Lassoed by powers any sane being would have declared inescapable, curses entrenched in blood runes and magic cutting deep. Impossible to remove and forever to remember, something cruel as they may believe it kind.

He's dabbled in magic before, knows the ways of the mages even as they venture into ever darker sins. Unbreakable enchantments locked in scarred writing sunken into skin that never fades; anchors and suppressants and something much, much, worse.

He knows, because they used it on him.

And those magics were unbreakable, or at least supposed to be. Freedom is something like a dying sky at dawn and dusk, something he shouldn't know or want but _does_ because he is of it. It was _meant - to - be,_ and it hurts in a way he doesn't want to admit when he learns it's impossible.

But he specialises in the impossible.

He is a dreamer, after all.

First off is the burning braces on his arms that lift an invisible weight from his shoulders he hadn't even realised was there - the void twists around him and he hears it, he hears them. They sing to him and lull him into a rare serenity and he lets them, because he knows they mean no harm.

In return he goes to the edge and speaks with it, whispers of the dragon he knows is just as trapped and wants - needs - to fly. He's expecting the void to tell him no, that the dragon is evil and he must not go near, but it says none of that.

Instead it agrees, and tells him that it will owe him if he rescues the dragon.

And it's strange. The void is like a sister he shouldn't have, older and ancient and wiser and looming. It likes him, apparently, and he feels like that thought should terrify him more than it does. It tells him this wasn't his fate, and he doesn't know why, but he listens.

He may be going crazy, but he was going to at least do it with style.

And maybe part of him is bitter that he doesn't belong here. It's not outright or anything, of course, is subtler in showing - but he feels no connection with the rock he treads upon, and there is no howling chorus following and hanging in wait for his every whim. Not that he wants it, of course, but it's a pretty telling sign.

Not to mention - the End-people whisper, and he is unaware, but he's also anything but.

He sees the stares, and he's not an enderman but it still prickles the back of his neck. Eye contact agitates him, and he snaps at those who dare to try and touch him. He only bows for the Angel when they visit, and even then, it's more in respect of their friendship than the court hierarchy.

And in the end - and in the End - he goes. He does it. He has nothing left to lose, after all.

* * *

He wakes to an earthshaking roar that has him leaping to his feet, his still-barefoot legs stumbling over themselves as they attempt, in vain, to wake up themselves. The wind rushes to steady him and the earth shifts for the sole purpose of allowing him to gain purchase, catering to his sluggish desires. He scowls when he registers the changes, jerking himself off-balance just to spite the gods.

The wind buzzes angrily in his ear, indignant at his refusal to use dumb tricks like that, but it's still quick to obey when he rolls his eyes - retreating reluctantly, receding to distant static. Glancing towards where the snaps and snarls are coming from, he notes with a mild sort of surprise that the dragoness is reared up onto her hind legs, wings beating furiously at the air and tail lashing, eyes wild and reflecting firelight as they dart from side-to-side - and that's when he realises the forest around them is on fire, apparently. 

The forest. Around them. Is on. Fucking. Fire.

_...what?!_

Was it her-? No, that didn't make sense - Ender dragons didn't even breathe normal fire, he knew that much at least. He heard her roar, again - clearly agitated by the smoke and burning smell. To be fair, it _was_ pretty bad. Although why didn't she just use the riv - oh, right. Ender native.

Fuck. Who the hell sets the forest on fire at midnight? The moon was still high in the sky, and he was _pissed. Off._

Growling to himself, he snatched up the furnaces and crafting table he'd set down yesterday, slipping them into his inventory and running towards his dragon friend. _"dluohs ew ylf tuo?_ " he screeched at her in Ender.

She roared back, but dropped her wings so he could scramble onto her back to ride. His core thrummed wildly with adrenaline he didn't know creatures like him could feel - he's not mortal, has no heartbeat, but his energy fizzles to the strength of the life around him and this life is dying, the forest is dying and it burns it _hurts._ Now that he's awake he feels the wounds crawling up his sides and searing into his skin - he cringes when he feels a wave of pain wash over his face, hazy and edged and roaring, and nearly collapses against the dragon's back.

 _"og,"_ he manages, _"esaelp."_ There's an echoing roar in the distance that rings in his ears, and then the wind is roaring and the huge wings at his either side shift and spread and unfold. And then there's a _whoomp-whoosh-thump-whssshh_ and she's flying. They're flying.

He clings to the spines of her back, gasps for breath and feels the burns scar nastily into ugly gashes down his sides - _theforesthteforesttheforest -_ he gets out a choked sob, and the wind presses against him and whirls around him, howling gales rippling off his face and hissing when they realise what he is, and he clings tighter and shuts his eyes. _Go away, go away, go away._

The unbearably hot air chills to a cold that is bone-deep and scalding, and he feels his tears brittle to ice under his mask. When he inhales there is the faint trace of smoke and the bitter burn of spice, and he knows what it means and feels something like hatred curl in his heart.

Fucking hunters. He'll kill them.

* * *

The End changed him, and he's all too grateful for it as much as he _hates_ it, loathes every part of the now-hardwired instinct with every fibre of his being.

The cold air is all-too reminiscent of the End's freezing chill, and he shivers as they begin their descent, extended wings twisting and spiraling into a dive. They land in the middle of the desert, the sun just beginning to rise and the heat coming back to him, sinking back into his bones and smoothing over his burns, the magical injuries already beginning to heal.

He coughs a puff of smoke and wipes his dry mouth, suddenly glad for his mask because it's going to get very, very, hot very, very soon.

Thank god for cooling magics.

The rising sun soon turns baking, and he's doing pretty okay all things considered - the natural heat fills him with strength, and he finds himself sprawling on the searing sand, sighing in contentment as he basks in the energy feeding through his limbs and winding into his chest. His poor companion isn't so lucky, and she's clearly agitated when she tries to lay down to sleep and the sand burns her, too hot for her scales accustomed to the harshest colds.

She snarls and jerks away, wings skimming a few centimeters from the sand in a vain attempt to avoid the heat pressing in on all sides. He would help her, probably, but he's too busy drowning in bliss. Instead, he just calls out a hasty apology in ender and burrows deeper into the sand.

It's so warm. So hot. So... nice, and he falls asleep there, the earth all around him and singing him to sleep.

* * *

He dreams of metal and blood and the taste of rust and decay, of empires tumbling down to ruins and warriors that warr and never learn the meaning of peace. He wakes up hurting, hating, screaming his lungs out and sobbing, and the earth tries to comfort him and slip him under again but he pulls away and rips the sand from his skin and tries to ignore how it feels physically painful, falling out of step with the rest of the world.

 _Home,_ sings his flesh and bones and soul. _No,_ the logical part of him demands, and it hurts. It hurts so much, like he's tearing himself in two. But this is what he was meant to do.

 _Weapon,_ whispers the broken part of him that wants to cut the rest of the world on all its brandished edges and make them bleed. _A hostage,_ _and nothing more._

And as he lays there on the sand, crumpled and trembling and all out of synch with the rest of his being, panting with an ache in his chest that threatens to _choke -_ he sees the sleeping dragon, he sees the sun burning high and holy in the sky, he sees himself. He sees the hands that shaped this earth even if it wasn't him, and he lives it too. He lives a lie.

And he stands up, shaking legs finding purchase on ground that shifts just for him, and he goes. He always goes.


	2. mirages with many edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out in the desert, there is a chain of survival that Dream should be all-too familiar with, but isn't.
> 
> The universe is quick to remedy that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tws for this chapter: hallucinations, mild suicidal thoughts
> 
> stay safe and sane and mentally sound!

He feels the group of six hunters approaching at dusk, the footfalls rattling earth in a way only he can feel as they move in closer - on horseback, perhaps. Smart of them, admittedly, seeing as he has a mount of his own. It'll be far too dangerous to fly for them if they have arrows.

It also means that he's going to have to kill them. Something bitter boils hot in his throat at the notion, but he knows death is different for humans - they'll revive, with phantom pains and gasping breath and perhaps even _scars_ \- they're not like _gods_ in the way they die.

Gods don't die. But they can pass on.

Dream is no god, but he has no desire to try the universe, either. Instead he rouses his ender dragon friend rather reluctantly (he really should learn her name soon), urging her gently as he shakes out his trembling limbs and pretends he isn't a dying star about to collapse inwards and explode.

Poetic, maybe, but that's all he feels like nowadays, one single push away from snapping apart.

He sweeps out an arm experimentally, gritting his teeth as he tries to catalogue his current position in alignment to natural coordinates - the jumbled string of numbers comes to him much faster than he expects, and it's only after a moment of hesitation he reaches for the position of the hunters, as well. The return is more static than clear thought this time, but he gets the gist of it - they're closing in. Quickly.

He could try to fly, again, but he can feel the weight of quivers on approaching backs. He hates himself when he whistles lowly, a nearby vulture sweeping down on large wings and landing onto his shoulder, wicked-sharp talons drawing bright brownish blood that makes him dizzy upon sight, oozing starlight metal void wrong earth _wrong_. Shoving down the urge, he tells the bird what to do, and it lifts off with another surge of splitting pain before it's gone into the darkening skyline.

It'll be fine, he knows - the hunters aren't after vultures. No, they're down for bigger game.

(he feels the wind of worlds beneath wingbeats and the glorious freedom of flight, and he yearns. oh, he _yearns.)_

His dragon companion hisses as she lifts her neck, wings arching and spanning into broad distances that fall into deep shadow. He wants to tell her to close her wings, that a bigger target is bad for everyone involved, but he doubts he can convince her - and, and this is where they have to separate, anyhow. Divide and conquer, the old saying goes, and maybe it's _be_ conquered but he has to take the risk.

If all else fails, he'll pull the ground from under their feet.

 _"og,"_ he tells her, wishing desperately they had more time because his current plan is shit, _"er'yeht retfa em. i t'nac ylf no uoy tuohtiw gniksir htob fo su."_ He wants to cringe away at her bullying stare, but holds his gaze. _"uoy wonk taht."_

She growls at him, pawing agitatedly at the sandy earth, and he winces in the face of her blatant disapproval. Still, it's really their only option as of right now - he can keep the hunters busy, and she can escape. It'll be worse if they get their hands on her, anyways. _"yb lla snaem, fi uoy evah a retteb aedi, yas ti. ev'ew tog ot og won."_

She snaps at him, pearl-white dagger-teeth flashing a warning in his direction, but he's seen her at her worst, and knows what true aggression looks like. This is just resignation.

There's a howling gust of wind, a wash of airborne sand swirling in his face, an echoing swish of a lashing tail - and then she's off, gone in moments, her full flight speed truly stunning now that she doesn't have to worry about any riding passengers falling off or being left behind. Sighing, he glances around at the huge footprints in the earth, the particles still showering through the air, and thinks: well, shit.

Hoofbeats thunder across shifting earth, a vulture caws from high above, and he stands his ground as the sand begins to churn.

* * *

Duller in the afternoon is triumph, he thinks, scrubbing the blood off his sword as best he can. The aftermath of the battle - bloody and brief - is exhausted victory, and he can't bring himself to summon any energy to cheer or celebrate. There's no glory to killing mortals who respawn anyway, no glory in the lowest kinds of fights for survival.

(And he can't believe, sometimes, that he's doing all this. Because the gods have never cared, so why does he even try?)

The sand stings across the unmasked parts of his face, blowing in a nonexistent breeze, and the wind whispers in his ears - _because you are ours._ And he doesn't have it in his heart to tell it no, but this earth is too pure, too naive, and yet not. They know nothing at the same time they know everything, but they don't know _him._

What he's become.

And he was of the earth once, was _Clay,_ but he is _Dream_ now.

* * *

When she wings her way back to him that morning, silhouetted by the rising dawn, he asks her her name. She just shrugs, black-violet rippling like liquid nighttime, and chirrups in the way that he's pretty sure means that he can choose.

 _"sehctap?"_ he asks, because he honestly has no idea. He's never named anything but weapons before, and weapons were easy. He just named them Nightmare, or some variation of the sort, because in his experience those were the most frightening things.

Creative he was not, but hey, at least he was realistic.

She shrugs again, but there's a pleased tilt to the narrow of her eye, and he smiles when he senses she's happy. It's a rare sight nowadays. _"sehctap ti si,"_ he murmurs, patting the part of her flank he can reach and being rewarded with a lazy, pleased-sounding drawl.

It's a rumble so deep it vibrates the very air around her and the stars above, and he grins at the affirmation.

They decide to stay at the site of carnage in the meantime, with Dream releasing the vulture from his grip before downing it with a swift chop of his axe. He should probably feel bad, but he's hungry, and there aren't many mobs that aren't zombie husks stumbling around. He tears into the carcass without remorse or manners, and the simple act of going feral probably shouldn't be so comforting but it _is._

It is until it isn't.

(if he listens hard enough, he can see starlight pooling from his pores, the corpse's dead eyes staring into his own and hissing, sibilant, _my lord.)_

He stops eating after that.

* * *

They're flying when he tells Sehctap to descend, sensing what feels like a hub of life bustling somewhere in the distance - many minds, many pulses, many lives connecting and tangling and living in harmony, a chorus of eager voices that swirls to his ears like music incarnate. _His people,_ sings something flighty in his quickening breath, and despite himself he starts to relax at the feel of the melody. There's none of the grating of the buried earth he's grown accustomed to, no - it's drowned out by the sounds of serenity and song, and he couldn't be faster in leaping off Sehctap's back the instant she touches down in a bloom of dust.

He's running towards the desert village the instant he locks on it's position - the soothing _hmms?_ and hums of villagers reaching his ears, and he barely registers the tears burning his eyes behind his mask when he stumbles and trips, his knees knocking against the sandy earth. He stays kneeling, there, for a couple of moments - gasping for breath, core thrumming strong, every fibre of his being desperate to enter the village and just - make his home there. Stay, stay and stay and _stay,_ and never leave. Not again.

_please, not again, please don't, please i-_

He sobs as a child of the earth returning home, except it was always a lie, and when Sehctap finally finds him he's defeated, clawing at the ground and crying, in front of the ruins of a desert village that was never there in the first place and will never be again.

* * *

When he finally musters the strength to venture within the abandoned town, he does it in desolation. Dream wanders the still streets holding his breath, everything too empty and too quiet and-too- _much,_ and he can feel new tears budding again - he hates himself so incredibly much in that moment, for falling for such a stupid thing. For being delusional enough to believe in something never meant to be, and wanting it so badly, and being a child of the earth yet such a stranger to its traps. And he cries as he goes, because what else is there to do?

In dilapidated houses devoid of life he discovers chests teeming with loot and supplies he can't bring himself to cheer at, loaves of bread that will feed him for weeks and rusty blades of iron and stone and old metal that warms in his hands. He stares, lostly, at the weapons - and for a moment he fantasises stabbing it into himself, returning to the void that had been ready to embrace him all along, cold and cold and colder and returning to a parody of what could have been home.

The blade vibrates with an energy he doesn't feel, and he lets his hands go slack, the hit slipping from his hands and skittering across the worn sandstone steps. He watches it fall, face unreadable and eyes empty, and thinks, _not yet._

Maybe someday, but not yet.

Not now.

She calls for him outside, a low call that hums against the stillness in the air, something otherworldly and wondrous in the darkness of the deserted ruins. He takes in a deep, shuddering, breath - casting one last furtive glance at the sword, laying abandoned across the dusty floorboards - and he goes. 

He's going to get home.

He has to.

(the wanted poster taped to the center of the town bulletin doesn't escape his notice, nor does the scribbled-over face of his mask. the page is torn through with the force of fury, and he lets himself wonder.

what a pity.)

* * *

The village was nothing but an empty tomb but also a treasure trove, and Dream wants to hate himself for looting the dead but can't. The _desecration,_ the nerve he had, he wasn't a _god_ he had no entitlement to the will of _corpses-_

-at least the items will go to use, now.

He polishes the many weapons he's acquired, discarding those with more brittle edges and splintered handles and worn-down blades. Sehctap is off hunting, and he has to be grateful, just for a moment, that she's self-sufficient - he doesn't know what he'd do otherwise. Feeding a dragon is no easy feat.

It was often the job of the most lowly servants, back in the End palaces - or, as he knew intimately, a punishment for those who simply could not learn the meaning of respect. _Clay_ had been a wild child, all spirit and fury and soft edges with straight-faced bites - and _Dream_ isn't that, anymore.

He doesn't know if he longs to be or not.

He's bitter, maybe at the gods, maybe at the End, maybe at the Overworld. Maybe at the universe.

Maybe at himself.

Evil breathes against his cheek, and he closes his eyes behind grinning porcelain and is glad he doesn't have to fake a smile to himself anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Ender is backwards-letters text. For example, 'should we fly out?' is "dluohs ew ylf tuo?". Each word is individually flipped around, because i'm a lazy person.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
